


Untitled Hymn

by Grape



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Healing, Angst, Asexual Castiel, Bisexual Dean, Bottom Dean Winchester, Broken Back, Broken Bones, Castiel First Meets Dean, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Chuck Shurley is God, God - Freeform, Heaven, Hurt Dean Winchester, Jesus - Freeform, M/M, Paralysis, Top Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:46:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24918577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grape/pseuds/Grape
Summary: Dean is found by Castiel in a field. Castiel takes time to heal Dean, all led by something some would call prophecy. Castiel doesn’t want to leave.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Untitled Hymn

The grass is flowing evenly, and full of misery; an ode to what is going on just out of view. He has been laying in that field far too many hours to count, and it is surprising his veins have not lost all the blood that keeps him steady. Bruises and aches cover his body like his blanket of freckles do; he is coated and stained with thick blood that has attached itself to his skin, dried as a result of him laying in the sun, gloriously exposed to it. He has been quiet for too long, but he’s still here; still breathing even just. His eyes are cemented with tired bloody gloss, and they throb against their sockets, almost as much as his head. Even though he is alive, what is that if it feels like this?  
At the notion of pain, he realizes he can sense again, and he reaches for consciousness. As he gets closer his pain gets more intense, and he tries to draw back to the bleak, before he realizes it's too late. The afflictions get more obvious as he decides to try and open his eyes, only to realize it’s so much harder than that. They feel tight, stuck closed like they don't want to open. Maybe they shouldn't. Feeling something spark in his chest, he forces his eyes open, and they immediately recoil from the bright sun, sharp pain spiking them. Regardless, this doesn’t mean he can see. Everything looks as though it’s shown through foggy glass that's tinted red. His stomach coils with the notion that something is terribly wrong. He feels water rushing down his face, and it’s tears. He’s crying. A dam bursts in his chest, but he can’t find the energy to let the river flow, so the lake of pain and depression remains idle in his lungs. He feels a slow, numb pain along his spine, down on his lower back, along with a sharp pain up along his person, attached to his throat. His breathing is labored, and he is forgotten on the ground with no means of getting up. With no means of getting help. His eyes close once more, and he hopes they will remain that way, but then-a car door shuts.  
His eyes move slowly- yet as quickly as he can manage right now- open and he looks around to the best of his ability to find who made that sound of sheer hope. He squints as he can hardly make out another person coming towards him. He gasps for help, his eyes bulging, and the other only makes a shushing gesture. This person is more mobile and comprehensive than him, so he listens and stays quiet. Exhausted on the ground and feeling as though he could slip into the field like the rain, he only cries harder. He cries because he’s so unaware of where he is, and because he can’t remember how or why this happened to him. Unabashed, he is sobbing impulsively to his heart's content.  
The one who came for him is moving slowly and gently, and he stands beside the broken man in the field. In that instance they both realize he’s naked. From the ground, his face flushes and he tries to cover himself, but his arms are dead weight; his tear’s flow gets heavier.  
“Hmm.” The stranger speaks, looking down upon the grounded one. The sound is tough in his throat. His eyes bore into the fallen man, and he notices a flash of embarrassment across their features.  
Spit and other fluids threaten to choke thrashing lungs as he tries to yell, or speak, or question, but the person watching over him simply says, “Hush now, Dean. You will only make it worse.”  
Dean. So that’s his name. He falls silent.  
“I am going to pick you up now.” They simply note, and move downward to lift Dean from the ground. The sound of ruffling clothes rings heavy in Dean’s ears, and he is lifted with such tenderness, if he was coherent he’d be blushing. Perhaps he is now. He can’t tell.  
The stranger now has him in their arms, and Dean can feel his skin sooth, like warm water is suddenly covering him, without the weight of being wet. Dean isn’t sure if he is religious or not, but being held now, sure feels like heaven. It feels like the water is cleansing him; healing him somehow. The man holding him seems to be forcing little to no effort.  
The man looks down at the field as he walks and does nothing but recite to himself. His eyes are soft, and he seems to be content. He seems as though he’s doing anything other than carrying a half-dead man in his arms. Listening closely, Dean can only make out a few words, and it sounds like a poem. Although, the rhythmic tone in which he speaks, makes it sound more like the verse to a song. Dean closes his eyes and breathes, to hear, “Weak and wounded sinner. Lost and left to die. Raise your head for love is passing by. And come to Jesus; come to Jesus. Come to Jesus...and live.”  
Dean opens his tired eyes, and sees the brilliant sun through his lashes, orbing and shining as its rays are manipulated by them. His brow furrows for a moment as he tries to make sense of what he heard, and he realizes he can't remember it all anyways. Turning his head some, he looks up at the other man, and he wonders. How strange for someone to find someone like him so close to death. From the distance they have walked, and how far is left to go, he can tell he would’ve been hidden from all view. It seems impossible to have been saved. Curiosity rises in him, and he turns desperate to know who is holding and caring for him so intimately; his voice tears at his throat as he asks softly, but with retired effort, “Who…” Choking in his words he heaved a cough and some, the strain making him wheeze. His respiratory is on fire, but he is desperate to understand. If anything can be answered, let it at least be who he needs to thank.  
The other peers down at him, and answers, “Castiel.” Dean stares up at him, not knowing what to say. Quite frankly, he’s lost their name already. He looks away as they get closer to the truck. It’s tan, and dirty, and Dean thinks of his car. He can’t quite remember what it is or much of anything about it, but he feels that longing. He knows he loves that car, but how can that be if he doesn't even remember it color? Dean huffs a short sigh, and tries to think of something else. He’s cried enough.  
Dean turns back to his rescuer, and he takes as good of a look as he can with his broken sight. This person is gorgeous, and far too handsome. Their face is made of angles; their eyes heavy. His lips look soft, and a warm flush of pink makes them glow against his tan skin. His hair is messy, like he doesn’t know how to fix it otherwise, and the blue of his eyes store themselves in Dean’s chest, so that he can only look away; the affection settling in his throat.  
Dean sees the man is wearing a fitted suit, underneath his long trench coat that hangs around his calves, billowing in the slight wind.  
Dean feels wildly underdressed.  
Just as they are approaching the car, Dean can feel the numb pain ease back into him. He closes his eyes tightly and tries to restrict the flow of tears, and to ignore the anxiety he feels. He knows what’s wrong, but he also knows he needs to suppress the knowledge that would break him. So he does. How is it even possible for him to break any further?  
Castiel opens the rickety back door and sets Dean on the towels that already cover the seats; wonder rushes through Dean’s brain as to how he would’ve known that he would bleed everywhere without the cloth.  
He’s laying on his back, struggling to breathe, and Castiel leans over to press his fingertips to Dean’s neck. Dean’s arms move restlessly as he tries to wrap his lagging head around this instance. Castiel’s warm body is pressing Dean into the seat, and can’t quite pinpoint the feeling in his chest, but it feels like something behind his ribs is swelling. The feeling of sheer warmth runs from the other man’s fingertips into Dean’s throat where he presses them; he blinks and his airway is clear. He can do nothing but stare at the dirty ceiling of the truck as he assesses himself. What is going on?  
“My God-“ Dean says to himself, laughing, stunned, and at a loss for anything else to say. “My God.” He repeats. “I can talk, Oh my God.”  
Castiel looks at him with his brow furrowed and says, “Please stop saying that.”  
Dean’s line of vision removes itself from the ceiling of the car as he tilts his head down to find Castiel over him, too close to be friendly. Tilting his head forward causes mild discomfort, he’s noticed. That, and Castiel has pressed himself inbetween Dean’s naked legs. He blushes like a schoolgirl and he finds himself at a loss for all words except, “Okay.”  
“Now,” Castiel mutters as he removes himself from Dean’s space, “Let’s head home.”  
He moves back to the door and Dean asks, “Home? I don't live with you.” At least Dean doesn’t think he does. He doesn't recognize this man. He swallows his nerves.  
Castiel has a tender look on his face as he says, “For a long while, you will.”  
Dean doesn't think he’ll be able to justify how confused he is, so he stays silent. He sighs against the wind against his skin, until suddenly he is hit with the shame of being naked. He swallows, asking, “Do you… have a change of clothes maybe?”  
A dash of recall moves across Castiel’s face as he says, “Yes I do, but they aren’t mine, so I am not sure if they will fit all that well…”  
Dean tries not to dwell on the fact that he’s so very naked and bloody as he mutters, “I’ll take what I can get, buddy.”  
He stares widely before blinking. “My name is Castiel.”  
He doesn’t really seem to get the nickname. This person is very strange; Dean’s never met anyone like him. Confusion is apparent on Dean’s face, as he looks away awkwardly, “That's a weird name.” The words are out before Dean thinks of their rudeness. He feels like he should apologize, but he doesn’t.  
Now Castiel’s face furrows, and his head tilts, “What… would you like to call me?” He says slowly.  
“Uh… Cas?”  
Castiel’s eyes widen and he looks down around his feet before he answers, “...Alright.”  
“Okay…” At this point Dean has covered himself to his best ability, but that doesn’t give him the security of clothes. “Cas?”  
His eyes bore into Dean’s as he takes a bit to answer, his pause obviously from his bewilderment, “Yes?”  
“Clothes, please.”  
“Right… I’ll be right back.” Cas moves to the front seat, and Dean lays his head back down against the towel. The smell of detergent hits his nose, and breathes into the seat underneath him. It grounds him.  
He closes his eyes and takes in a deeper breath. He takes in the open, humid air and it feels good. His head clears lazily and then he feels… strange. His back is tingling, like a wall has been put up between him and unbearable pain. The same goes for his right wrist. He looks down at it and attempts to move it; in the process the tingling intensifies. It just feels like pins and needles, if it’s nearing unbearable. He grunts at the sensation moving up his arm, and a feeling of something wrong gets stuck in his throat.  
Castiel comes back with a colorful cloth, and it's folded up. He looks unsure as he says, “You are not going to like it…”  
“It’s clothes and I’m naked, please just hand it over.”  
Castiel sighs and unfolds- a sundress. It’s got no curves for figure, with only thin straps for sleeves. The colors are a gorgeous blue and green tye-dye, and Dean can no longer develop coercive thoughts. He stares at Cas with an offended, “Why?”  
He looks a little bit startled, and confused. He says, “Well I couldn’t bring you pants; they would be too hard to put on.”  
Dean feels a pang of fear in his gut; it swirls like liquid fire and slowly climbs upward. ”What do you mean?” He already knows the answer, but he needs to hear it.  
A look dawns on Cas’ face, and his brow contorts in pity. “You haven't tried moving your legs?”  
The feeling climbs past Dean’s chest and settles behind his mouth. His jaw clenched as he looks at his legs, and tries to kick one up. It remains limp. He tries to move his feet, or flex his thigh. Nothing. His legs won’t move. The only thing moving now is the hole of panic in his gut and the tears in his eyes.  
“Why aren’t they moving?” He looks intensely at Cas, daring him to say it as a single tear rolls down his cheek, Dean can feel his heart beat in his ears.  
Castiel straightens and says softly, “Your back. It’s broken.”  
No…No, that isn’t true. If it was, Dean wouldn’t be able to move at all right? He wouldn’t be able to speak, right? There’d be awful pain too, right?  
“No, I’d be able to feel it. I’d be unconscious or-or I’d be incoherent…” Dean tries to plead with himself, or maybe with Cas, with someone that it isn’t true, even with the awful feeling that’s already been inside him. The feeling that Cas...is right.  
“I am sorry, but it is. You have a fracture-dislocation in your vertebrae; this has caused paralysis in your legs. You do not feel it because I have blocked the pain. And because you do not feel the pain, you can think properly. I have cleared your throat as well.”  
The sundress hangs abandoned in Cas’ arms, and for once he is beginning to feel something he has never felt. It feels like he is torn with Dean’s pain, but differently. It feels like a weight atop his own shoulders, pushing him ever so slowly into the soft dirt. The heaviness has nerves that reach to his stomach and to the backs of his eyes. His form sags slightly, and eyelids fall. Castiel does not like this feeling; the first introduction to it has him aching.  
Apart from Cas’ struggles with empathy, Dean is panicking out of his fucking skin. What if he never walks again? What the fuck does he do then? The hope of once again making it with his car is gone, and now he’s going to have to have some able asshole on his arm until he drops dead.  
“You’re kidding? You’re messing with me right? So I’m just supposed to go the rest of my life without legs? I hope you like being a fucking servant pal!,” If Dean was able to stand, he’d be pacing out his skin. His terror has turned into anger and he can’t stop himself from using this stranger as an outlet. “You say that you healed my throat? And- And my pain? Just heal my back! Fix me, damnit!”  
Castiel looks taken aback; he’s never had a conversation so hostile. His jaw tightens, and he looks towards the ground. “I can’t. Not yet.”  
Dean has a wide eyed stare as his brow furrows further, and he yells, “What the fuck are you talking about?!”  
“I-” Castiel stutters for an answer, without any luck. His lips tighten and he feels his throat clench. He looks down in submission; something he has done time and time again while getting yelled at by authority. And just like those times before, he can’t understand what went so wrong that he is being treated as a lesser. He helped Dean, and he healed what he could. Castiel doesn't understand why Dean is angry, and he doesn't understand why he is feeling this heavy weight on his shoulders, nor this twist in his gut that simultaneously tears in the back of his head. All he can do is shed light tears. Castiel is quiet as they slip out from his eyes and onto his shirt, spotting it damp. This never happened in Heaven. How awfully beautiful it is to feel human.  
Dean sees this man, this tough rugged man, and he sees how he made him cry. Guilt pangs Dean, and he softens. He breathes to himself, and swallows his pride.  
“Look, Cas, I’m sorry.”  
Cas doesn’t respond. He simply wipes a tear from his eye and stares at his gleaming fingertips.  
Dean feels pressure in his head as something sparks in him, “Cas just heal me. Please.”  
Castiel looks up at Dean, his face still full of wonder, as though he can’t believe that he cried. His pre-shed tears shine lightly on his cheeks, and he sighs, “I already told you, Dean. I can’t.”  
Frustration punches Dean in the gut, and he pleads, “Why not?”  
Cas wipes his hand on his coat, and he says, “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”  
Dean stills in the silence, until he asks, “Could you explain it?” He’s tempted to make a joke about not going anywhere, but he doesn’t have it in him.  
Cas sighs deeply, while he bristles in place. “All in good time Dean. I’ll explain when we are home.”  
Dean finds that once again, anger has made it’s way into his chest. “Fine.” He pushes himself up into a sitting position, realizing that without the strength of his legs, he requires much more upper-body strength. The tingling in his back spikes, before settling to a mild buzz. He looks away.  
Cas leans forward to hand the dress to Dean, which he takes reluctantly.  
“Do you need help?”  
Dean stops, his mouth slightly open so that his lips glisten. “I’m not wearing this.”  
Castiel says nothing, but he does tilt his head in confusion.  
Dean huffs and says, “I’m not putting on a dress. Do you have a blanket or something?”  
Castiel nods and hesitantly moves to the front of the car again to grab a large grey blanket. He bundles it up and hands it to Dean.  
Dean stares at it with wide eyes, “Why didn’t you just give me this in the first place?”  
Cas clenches his jaw and tightens his lips, “I’m sorry.”  
This is too much for Dean, “Can we just go?”  
Cas nods curtly as Dean Moves himself backwards, his legs moving out of his control; just falling off the seat and remaining limp. Dean feels pressure in his throat. He moves to the other side of the cab, and leans against the closed door, throwing the blanket over himself once he’s content.  
Cas watches him for a second longer, Dean directly avoiding his gaze, until he shuts the door and walks around the truck. He sits in the driver's seat, starts the car, and sets them on their way.


End file.
